


harbinger

by unholyconfessions (orphan_account)



Series: salt in the wounds [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Light Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, Set Post-5.08 - Ouroboros, Set Pre-5.09 - Lies of Omission, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 23:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4764563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/unholyconfessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theo’s got him exactly where he wants Stiles to be, under his thumb, wanting him, needing his fix and ignoring the consequences. </p><p>[sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4610247">alexithymia</a>.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	harbinger

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, one more! :-)
> 
> This picks up right after [alexithymia](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4610247) and is set between _Ouroboros_ and _Lies of Omission_ , in that span of 5 days Scott mentions in the beginning of 5.09. I'll move onto 5.09, and then 5.10 in the next installment.
> 
> Unbetaed as usual. Feedback is love! 
> 
> Enjoy!

He lies awake with Theo’s taste still on his tongue, an imprint of Theo’s fingers around his waist, bruises where Theo’s blunt nails broke skin and stayed, possessive.

It’s a still image, yet so vivid in his mind.

No movement, no sound, just the moment Theo’s mouth touched his and he lost control, eager and desperate to prove a point, and then it moves: frames in slow motion, color-bright and loud, coiling hot and thick in his stomach.

Fighting would have been easier, kicks and punches and forceful shoves that would leave bruises that would fade in a week and be forgotten in a breath. Fighting would have been safer, would have kept him sane.

(But Stiles has never been one to play safe, has he?)

The ceiling stares back at him in dull condemnation as he presses his phone to his chest, waiting for a reply that doesn’t come until the early morning light pours into his room, and it’s not Malia or Scott. Instead, Lydia’s name flashes on the screen in bold letters and Stiles welcomes the distraction. They text back and forth: about Parrish, about chimeras, about nothing at all, and he’s at ease for once.

He hitches a ride in his dad’s car, offers a useless explanation as to the state of his Jeep in-between hopping in and out to school, and his dad doesn’t push it, simply mutters something about Stiles paying for the repair and he’s gone.

Stiles watches him go, car disappearing in a curve down the street, before moving in through the double doors and down the school corridor. He moves amidst quiet laughter and a familiar background chatter that’s too loud to his ears, passes by Scott and Malia with soundless words and barely a glance.

Then, there’s Theo, right in front of him. Liquid confidence and a stare that makes Stiles’ skin crawl, mouth curved up in a smile.

Stiles closes his eyes and moves on, ignores that nameless, unspoken _need_ that he shouldn’t feel but does, that dark, sudden rush in his blood.

He finds shelter in Lydia for the remnant of the day. She occupies his mind with something other than Theo.

“So, what’s going on with you?” she asks him, more a passing thought than an actual question, as they wander into the woods searching for the Nemeton.

Stiles shakes his head, says, “Nothing,” and keeps on walking.

They rinse and repeat for the next day, and then another, until Lydia stops asking altogether. The Nemeton is nowhere to be found, not to Stiles’ surprise, and Lydia’s been getting more frustrated by the minute.

“I think we should stop looking,” she tells Stiles. “Can’t we just ask Parrish?”

“No,” Stiles says. Before she can ask why not, he amends, “I know we can find it, okay? I just need you to focus, Lydia.”

Lydia’s shoulders fall with a sigh. “I am focusing, and we can’t find it.”

Stiles wets his lips and takes a step in her direction, hands on each of her shoulders, “If we can’t find it until the weekend, you can do whatever you want, alright?” She gives him a disgruntled look and Stiles loosens his grip on her. If he can’t stall her, maybe he can find the bodies before she does. “Alright?”

Lydia nods. “Until the weekend,” she tells him, “and then I’m talking to Parrish.”

He nods back, forces out a smile, and finds it hard to ignore the way her eyes bore upon his back like a silent question, one that follows him into the next morning.

She’s at her locker as if to pass the time, shoulder leaning onto metal and one hand leafing through a history book that Stiles knows she won’t need for the day, and Stiles walks past her with a look and not much else.

This time, as he makes his way down the hallway and his eyes meet Theo’s, Theo’s fingers find his wrist. Stiles flinches at the touch, almost takes his arm back but not quite as Theo drags him to an empty classroom.

In retrospect, Stiles will pretend that it all happened in a rush, that Theo pushed him against the wall and forced himself on him before he had a chance to think. In reality, Stiles moves first, freeing his wrist so he can grab the front on Theo’s leather jacket and pull him closer, feel Theo’s lips against his as Theo asks, “Any luck finding the Nemeton?”

Stiles doesn’t respond. He forgets to hate Theo when Theo’s hands find his waist, and then he moves, slowly, kisses Theo with as much quietness as he can get away with, as if it’ll somehow fill the bottomless hole in his stomach. 

He’s surprised Theo lets him, but Theo’s been like that ever since their last encounter at Scott’s place—smiles instead of smirks and that lethargic heat in his eyes—and Stiles chooses to believe that it’s anything other than emotional manipulation. Just this once.

A claw grazes his cheek, not enough to mark his skin, but enough to let him know that it _could_ , if Theo wanted to. He could mark Stiles, he could make Stiles his and no one could stop him, especially not Stiles.

Even if he wanted to.

A wall tumbles down in Stiles’ mind and the boundary between good and evil isn’t so clear to him anymore.

(Maybe it never was to begin with.)

Theo moves back, just far enough to make Stiles chase after his mouth, and Stiles does without hesitation, pulling harder at Theo’s jacket until he has Theo pressed harder against him, chest to hip. He hates that he wants this, hates that his body and mind keep sabotaging him, hates that guilt isn’t a feeling he can trust to feel.

There’s a laugh in Theo’s kiss, a silent sureness that only makes Stiles kiss him harder, as if that weren’t exactly what Theo wanted him to do. Theo’s got him exactly where he wants Stiles to be, under his thumb, wanting him, needing his fix and ignoring the consequences. 

Stiles knows, but doesn’t care.

He stumbles back until the back of his thighs meets the hard edge of a desk. He hops on it, careful not to break contact with Theo, and coaxes a moan out of Theo’s lips when they connect hip to hip. Theo opens his mouth wider, breathes against Stiles, and for a moment Stiles thinks he’ll say something to fix this horrible, fucked up thing that’s happening.

Theo just grabs Stiles’ hips and smiles, presses so hard against Stiles that Stiles has a hard time reaching between them to grab Theo’s belt.

It’s Theo who pulls away first, and Stiles will pretend that it wasn’t the case. His hand comes up to hold Stiles’ jaw as he kisses him one more time, quick and hard, before letting Stiles go altogether.

“Not here,” Theo whispers.

It’s more of a warning than a promise, but fuck if Stiles cares about the difference.


End file.
